Tintin and the Epidemic of Death
by Maddi Paige
Summary: Tintin may have stumbled upon something big. I mean, really big. Something so big and so dangerous it could affect hundreds of thousands of innocents. Can he uncover the dastardly plot and deal with his inner turmoil in time to save the world? Rated T
1. Occupational Hazards

**Author's note: First Tintin fanfic, hope you enjoy! Please, please, please, leave constructive criticism! I am always interested in what you think!**

Tintin and the Epidemic of Death

The impervious, gray, cumulonimbus clouds that lingered over Brussels threatened a devil of a storm, if not within the next ten minutes, surely before the hour was up. Rumbling with impatience and thunder, the obscured sky spat tiny droplets in preparation for what was coming. Harsh winds whipped through bushes and trees, tearing leaves from branches and causing the trunks to groan with the strain of the forceful gale.

Captain Haddock hated storms. No, that was not true. He hated storms while he was at sea. Cocooned in the warmth and solidity of Marlinspike Hall, he actually was amused by the uncertainty in the atmosphere, the bulkiness and majesty of the massive thunderheads and the way time seemed to freeze. Haddock decided there was nothing quite like being buried beneath a fuzzy blanket by a massive, roaring fire with a mug of black coffee in his hand, just waiting for the first torrents of pounding rain to announce it's presence on the window panes.

With an explosion like that of a bomb, the sky was wrenched apart at the seams. Lightening sizzled in a jagged arc across the clouds and illuminated the grounds and water poured out of the atmosphere. Thoroughly entertained, the Captain settled back to watch the dazzling lines of electricity and tuned into the symphony created by the rain and thunder.

Supper came and went, and Captain Haddock's stomach began to flutter with something other than hunger: anxiety. At first he chalked the feeling up to the violent storm and lack of food in his belly, but then he recalled the true explanation for his nervousness. Tintin was supposed to stop by and eat lunch with him, and the boy was either uncharacteristically late, or a dreadful misfortune had befallen him.

By the time dinner rolled around, the Captain decided the latter was most likely and resolved to search for his ginger-haired friend. Before he could act upon his plan, however, the doorbell chimed throughout the manor, leaving behind an echo.

With a tint of hope in the back of his mind, Haddock bolted from his armchair and hustled into the dark entryway. He was surprised to see that Nestor, the butler, wasn't at the door already, but then Haddock remembered he'd given the hardworking man a well-earned vacation. Throwing the colossal oak doors wide, he was greeted with a welcome sight.

Soaking wet and shivering, Tintin marched in, silhouetted by a flicker of lightening and flanked by his trusty white terrier, Snowy.

"Ten thousand thundering typhoons, boy!" Haddock exclaimed. "You look like a drowned rat! Forgot your umbrella again, I assume?"

"You know me too well, Captain," Tintin beamed, shoving the doors closed and locking out the flood. "Sorry I'm late."

Haddock frowned. "You had me worried sick!"

Tintin laughed and hung his sopping wet trench coat on a stand. "I can't take care of myself, Captain, but I appreciate your concern. How about I fix dinner as an apology?"

Haddock grumbled something inaudible like, "hours late…barnacles…" but Tintin raced off, and the captain followed him to Marlinspike's spacious kitchen.

Within minutes, Tintin whipped up a bubbling pot of potato, onion and sausage stew that reminded the boy vaguely of goulash, minus the cabbage. He served a steaming portion to Captain Haddock and took a more adequately sized bowl for himself. After dog food was procured for snowy, the group trooped into the luxurious dining room. It wasn't until Tintin had settled himself across the table from his companion that the captain noticed a dark spot on Tintin's cheekbone.

"Barnacles, Tintin! Where'd ya get tha' shiner?" Haddock gasped, squinting at the mark.

"Oh, this?" the young journalist replied nonchalantly, brushing a finger over the purply yellow bruise under his right eye. "Merely an occupational hazard, my old friend." He really didn't want to talk about this right now, so Tintin acted like it was no big deal. Besides, troublemaking schoolboys had such blemishes all the time, and if they could take it, so could he.

"Trophy? Occupational hazza-OLD?" Captain Haddock roared. "Not another story already? You only finished typing the last one over the weekend! Oh, I need a scotch…"

"Ah, ah, ah, Captain! You are forgetting something!" Tintin waggled a finger at his friend. "You gave up alcohol for lent, remember?" Captain Haddock's jaw dropped.

"I-I did?" he stuttered. Tintin nodded, a grin plastered on his pale face. Snowy yipped in agreement.

"Well, blow my dress up! I suppose I did at that!" The captain reclined in his seat, quite bemused.

They finished their dinner in contented silence, Snowy included. The heat from the soup in Tintin's belly calmed him, and he began to nod off. His chin dropped to his light blue sweater.

_He was so cold, so alone. The scrawny puppy he clutched tightly to his chest, white as snow, was barely keeping him from crying. His mother pleaded with his father in the next room; the closed door and paper-thin walls did nothing to block out her sobbing, her screaming. _

_Something crashed to the floor and shattered, and he flinched, nearly dropping Snowy. His mother went quiet. He squeezed his eyes shut as the knob began to turn on his bedroom door-_

"Tintin! Lad, wake up!" Captain Haddock shook the whimpering boy gently. Gasping and perspiring, Tintin broke away from the dream. He barely registered Snowy's head resting in his lap, gazing up at him with concerned black eyes.

"What? What is it, Captain?" He tried to control his voice and his shaking, but only succeeded in sounding more frightened.

"You fell asleep, lad. You must be exhausted, what with all that reporting," Haddock politely left out the moaning and begging he'd heard emanating from the boy to spare his pride and his feelings.

"I-yeah- I mean, yes I am," Tintin answered truthfully. "I'll be getting home now, I suppose."

Haddock shook his head. "Nonsense! I've got plenty of room here, and you're welcome to stay anytime."

"But Captain, I couldn't-"

"Tintin, that's one Hell of a storm out there, and it wouldn't be decent of me to turn you out at this time of night," Haddock argued. Maybe it was because Tintin knew there was no point arguing with the captain at this point, or maybe it was because he was too tired to object, Tintin accepted.

Captain Haddock cleared the dishes away and led Tintin and Snowy to a well-furnished guest bedroom on the second floor. After starting a fire in the hearth and heating up the room, the captain bid the two good night and took his leave. Tintin stripped to his boxers and undershirt, switched off the lamp, and tucked himself into the plush four-poster bed. He reached down and lifted snowy into bed with him; the skinny dog he clutched to his chest, white as snow, was barely keeping him from crying. The captain was so good to him, and the boy knew he didn't deserve it…

Finally, Tintin slipped into dreamland, the remaining embers in the fire just illuminating the wiry figure outside his window…


	2. Grumpy editors

**Authors note: I AM AN EXTREMELY BAD PERSON. I forgot to do the disclaimer! Im so ashamed...Please don't haunt me, Herge! Anyway, here it is along with chapter two!  
I DO NOT AND MOST LIKELY NEVER WILL OWN TINTIN!  
He is too awesome for me to own...**

**ENJOY!**

(That previous morning)

There was something annoyingly wet in his ear, and that something was slick and slobbery. Tintin rolled over in bed, succeeding in removing the- whatever it was. But then, the warm, moist thing was back, this time on his neck.

"Snowy, stop! I'm trying to sleep here!" Tintin groaned, pushing the fox terrier and his pink tongue away. But the damage was done. Once he was awake, there was no way he'd be able to fall asleep again. His red-rimmed eyes glared at the clock; 5:02 a.m., it read. Instead up getting up right away, he gazed up at the ceiling and stroked Snowy's fur. Mentally, Tintin chastised himself for writing all night; he was exhausted and stiff, his back ached, and the tips of his fingers were numb.

"How about some breakfast, Snowy?" Tintin sat up, swung his legs out of bed and stretched. Snowy barked and skittered around Tintin's small bedroom excitedly.

"Food, food, food!" Snowy thought, and chased his master to the kitchen, weaving between Tintin's legs and making him stumble.

Chuckling, Tintin retrieved the dog chow from a cabinet and scooped out just the right amount. Once Snowy was gulping down his meal, Tintin made his own breakfast. He procured a large, clean skillet from the dishwasher to make eggs (sunny side up) and then fried two strips of bacon. While they were popping and sizzling, he removed the remaining dishes from the washer and placed them in their various places of occupancy. Once he sat down with his plate, a piece of toast, and a glass of orange juice, he dug in.

The eggs were perfect, and he mopped up the gooey, yellow yolk the toast. He ripped a scalding hot bacon strip in half and popped the sections in his mouth, savoring the salty grease and chewy texture as it slid down his throat.

Snowy whined and pawed at Tintin's pajamas. "All right, all right! Here, silly dog," Tintin slipped the terrier the rest of the meat. "Table scraps aren't good for you, you know." He scolded, with a half joking, half serious tone.

After breakfast, Tintin hurried through the rest of his morning routine, eager to get to the Petit Vingtieme before he had lunch with the captain. He chose a light blue sweater, khaki pants, and his brown leather shoes. Next, he attempted to flatten his unruly quiff of ginger hair, only to have it spring right back into place. Sighing, Tintin snatched his story out of his typewriter. Donning his beige overcoat, he stepped out of his apartment with Snowy, and locked the door.

"C'mon, boy! The newspaper waits for no one!" Tintin called. The two ran off down the bustling street and through the crowded marketplace. It seemed everyone in Brussels was out, stocking up on supplies before the storm blew in from the ocean. Already, gray tinted clouds peppered the sky, choking out the blue.

Tintin hoped the editor would like his article; the paper had published them before. But there was always a nagging bit of uncertainty that followed Tintin, lurking only a few short steps behind and whispering that it wasn't good enough, that _he_ wasn't good enough.

Something slammed into him from behind, and immediately all senses went on red alert. But it wasn't necessary.

"Watch it, lad!" Without realizing it, Tintin had stopped in the middle of the busy sidewalk and a portly businessman, buried in his newspaper, had plowed right into him.

"Sorry!" Tintin called, but the man was already gone. "Gee, Snowy. I don't know what came over me." Tintin shook the despondent thoughts away. The white terrier by his side let out a low whine. He could feel his master's discomfort. It reminded Snowy of Loud-Man-With-Fists-Hurt-Tintin from a long time ago.

Finally, the two companions climbed the steps of the Petit Vientiane, the newspaper Tintin wrote for regularly. They loitered in the lobby for an hour before the editor-in-chief, Mr. Maes, would see them, and when they were ushered inside his office, Tintin perceived the editor wasn't in an excellent mood. The doubt that the journalist had been struggling with returned strongly, but he swallowed it down.

"Sir, I finished my article for the Sunday paper," Tintin prompted, taking a seat across the desk from Mr. Maes.

"Tintin, I told you I wanted that story by Wednesday!" the editor snapped. Tintin gulped, and Snowy hid under the plush armchair.

"I know, sir, but I only just returned from the Philippines late Friday, and-"

"Stop your blubbering; just give me the damn papers! What is it with kids these days…?" Mr. Maes grumbled as Tintin passed him the article.

"I'm not a kid," Tintin thought. He scratched Snowy while Mr. Maes read. That had been a particularly difficult story to acquire. It almost cost him more than he was willing to pay…

* * *

_The burly henchman jerked him to his feet by his ginger hair, pulling back the dagger, preparing to slit his throat…_

_A white mass leapt at the man, allowing his master time to retaliate, to break free. A quick glint of steel, Snowy's yelp, red blood…_

_In a rage, Tintin leapt at the perpetrator. Within seconds, the villain was subdued, with a bloody nose to show for it. Snowy limped up to him. The knife wound, thank God, was just a cut on the dog's shoulder-_

"ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO ME?" Mr. Maes yelled. Tintin

* * *

blinked away the vision.

"Of course I am, sir." He replied instantly. Snowy licked his palm, as if to reassure him.

The editor sighed. "Yes, I suppose you are. You're article is going in the paper. See Marisol at the front desk for your pay." With a wave of the editor's hand, Tintin was dismissed.

"He's certainly not very pleasant," Tintin remarked to Snowy as they left the building. He breathed a sigh of relief. The story had made the cut.

"Of course it would," Tintin told himself. The teen checked his watch. "Better head over to Marlinspike, Snowy, or we'll be late for supper."

The clouds had darkened since they had last been out of doors; they were swirling, charcoal colored masses. Tintin fastened the buttons on his trench coat as the wind picked up. His feet tapped on the emptying cobblestone street as he strolled down the lane that led to Marlinspike Hall.

As the road ran parallel to the ocean, Tintin had a clear view of the docks. He noted the bizarre lack of sailors from the waterfront. Even with an approaching squall, Tintin speculated there should still be dozens of seamen hustling about, tying down crates, securing the ships, and the like.

"Odd," Tintin mumbled, halting at the side of the road to scrutinize the harbor.

It was once said that curiosity killed the cat. Tintin figured that since neither he nor Snowy was a feline, they would be fine poking around the docks.

"How about it, Snowy? Ready for another adventure?" The ginger haired boy asked. His fox terrier yipped and took off joyously in response.

Forsaking the road, Tintin followed Snowy down to the boathouses. The old, rotting piers groaned and swayed beneath their feet, and the water sloshed menacingly against the weak support beams. A young cabin boy crossed their paths.

"Excuse me," Tintin called, grabbing the boy's sleeve. He jumped, startled, and faced the journalist.

"Yes?" he asked, his black eyes half hidden by even darker hair. "What is it?"

"I was wondering where everyone was," Tintin started, "Shouldn't there be more sailors around? Preparing for the storm?"

The cabin boy blinked. "I suppose." He replied evasively. "I have to go." Tintin watched the boy dash off.

"He sure was suspicious, Snowy," Tintin remarked. He continued his stroll down the peer, sizing up the other dockworkers. There was something amiss here, and now the journalist was quite interested.

"Careful," Tintin cautioned, more to himself than his dog. Tintin gazed over the harbor, his luminous blue eyes combing over every square inch of the wharves, decks, ships, and warehouses…

The warehouse! "Look, Snowy! There's a light on inside!" Tintin observed. "Maybe all of the sailors are in there. Probably having a meeting about the storm." Though Tintin had probably deduced a likely answer, something in his gut was keeping him from continuing on his to Marlinspike.

"It seems queer that all of the sailors and captains from different ships would be inside one warehouse at the same meeting," Tintin thought. "Especially when the thunderstorm is about to begin." He observed the lighted warehouse from afar.

"C'mon, Snowy, let's get a closer look." Tintin hurried down the pier as fast as he could while still making sure they wouldn't fall through the planks, and Snowy bounded after him. The nimble teen reached the rusty warehouse (marked STORAGE-12) and stacked empty crates beneath a shattered window. He scaled the precariously balanced structure and peered through the window. Voices, mangled by an echo, drifted through the air to Tintin, but because of the distortion, he was unable to determine individual words.

"Wait here, Snowy. Stay! I'm going to get a better view," Tintin commanded. He placed his hands on the windowsill, and then swung a leg over. Taking care not to disturb the shards of glass on the top of the shelf below him, Tintin lowered himself into the warehouse.

Soundlessly, Tintin climbed down the industrial shelf and glanced around. He appeared to be on the second level of the building. Weaving through the various wooden crates, tarps, chain links and barrels, he finally came to a rickety, metal staircase. Miraculously, he made it to the first floor without detection. The garbled voices were now distinct and clear. Tintin hid behind a tall, cardboard box and tuned in.

"…Promised three canisters to the Soviets, two for Saudi Arabia, and four for Germany, and now you're telling me we only have _one! _You know what those communists'll do to us?" A nasally voice sneered. "You buffoon! Idiotic worm! We're dead men!"

"But Mr. Baert, sir! We can get more of them! I-I'll personally visit Shepherd-" a second voice sniveled.

"You had better, Willy, and have 'em by tomorrow night, latest," Mr. Baert scoffed. Tintin inched closer, hoping to catch a glimpse of the canister the men were quarreling about, but he accidentally dislodged a carton full of tuna, and the crate slammed to the ground, scattering the silver fish everywhere. He had a clear view of the men now, one stout and bald, and the other skinny, tall and bearded. But they also had a unobstucted view of Tintin.

"It's that reporter I told you about!" Tintin whirled, smacking the side of his face on a wodden support beam as he turned toward the voice. The familiar cry came from the dark haired cabin boy and Tintin quickly located him at the main doors of the warehouse. His heart pounding, Tintin leapt off the ground and dashed straight towards him, catching all three men off guard. He shoved the cabin boy out of his way and bolted through the open doors.

"Get him!" He heard Mr. Baert screech.

Sprinting away, Tintin called Snowy to his side. The two set off at a furious pace, dodging various fishermen and mechanics, their pursuer's feet pounding on the planks behind them. They reached land and scrambled up the steep slope to the road.

With a crack of lightning, the clouds belched rain. The water soothed his stinging face. Tintin vaguely mused at what the captain would say when he found out that he ran into a post. Glancing back, he saw two of the men fall back, but the lanky, bearded man kept after them. Glad for the cover the rain provided, Tintin flew onward, lungs burning. He urged Snowy and himself to go faster.

Gradually, the man fell back, and Tintin came in view of Marlinspike Hall. Breathing laboriously and hoping he had given the man the slip, he unlatched the creaky wrought iron gate and entered the grounds, his shoes squelching in the mud.

**THANK YOU FOR READING! Now, review! (I'm using the force; it's impossible to resist!)**

**Especially special thanks to GoldenFlither, Brazeau, RedScarfLuxio, and Witch Knight Daisy for reviewing the first chapter (YOU GUYS ARE THE BEST! XD who likes the big, big, big smile you got as thanks? Seriously, thanks.)**

**As always, I apriciate _constructive_ criticism. :p**


	3. Alarming letters

**Authors note: It's rather late so I hope there arent many mistakes. I DO NOT OWN TINTIN! One of my besties was being bullied today, and I got really mad. There aren't even enough cuss words to discribe the delinquents. (Should've used some of haddocks...)**

**Me: ANYWHO! Here's chapter three! Hope you like it! PLEASE REVIEW! Please? I'm not too proud to beg!  
Tintin: What about that one time when-  
Me: I thought we agreed never to speak of it!  
Tintin: Ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm...just review, 'kay everyone?  
everyone: YAH TINTIN WE'LL DO WHAT YOU SAY CUZ YOURE EPIC! :)**

**thanks.**

(Present time, about 1:47 a.m.)

Tintin was feeling uncomfortably hot. Feverishly hot. Supernova hot. Sweat trickled down his neck, and his orange quiff was matted to his forehead. Strange figures and visions tore through his head. Subconsciously, he attempted to kick off the heavy covers but when he did, Snowy gnawed on his calf. _Alarmed, Tintin bolted upright to a terrifying sight; the entire room was aflame! _Snowy hadn't bit him at all! In fact, the angry red flames had succeeded in climbing the bed curtains and had caused a similar pain.

Black smoke stung Tintin's eyes as he flew out of bed and stumbled around, searching for his dog. "Snowy? Snowy, come!" He shouted before smoke inhalation forced him into a fit of coughing.

A furry mop licked his foot and Tintin scooped it into his singed arms, finding to his relief it was what he deduced it to be: a small and frightened fox terrier.

"C'mon, Snowy, let's get out of here!" Tintin choked, groping for the door. His fingers found the cool knob and he yanked on it.

But it was locked.

They were trapped.

It dawned on Tintin that the fire was deliberate. Someone wanted him dead. Then he realized the Captain could be in danger as well. He would not, could not, let anything befall his comrades, especially when it was obviously his nosiness at the docks that caused their predicament. Archibald Haddock and Snowy were the closest to family he'd ever-

"NO!" Tintin choked. He couldn't afford to get emotional now; they had to escape...

With desperation, he threw his shoulder at the door, taking care to shield Snowy from the impact. The solid oak didn't budge.

"Again," Tintin commanded, "Again!"

Suddenly there was a sickening pop, and his arm exploded with pain; he had dislocated his shoulder. Gritting his teeth, he used his other side as a battering ram but to no avail.

His head was spinning, from lack of oxygen or from the agony in his shoulder he couldn't decipher which, nor did he really care. Snowy was limp, unconscious in his arms.

"Captain…" he croaked, blacking out and sliding to the smoldering wood floor.

* * *

_It was a holiday, Christmas, and he was wrapped in a red fleece blanket by a roaring fireplace, with the little fox terrier he had just unwrapped. He was laying crossways on his mother's lap, with the puppy curled up under his chin. It squealed and wiggled, tickling the boy and making him and his mother laugh._

"_What's his name, Tintin?" she asked, styling his hair into a sort of fohawk._

"_I don't know," Tintin replied, attempting to flatten the strange spike with a free hand._

_His mother smiled warmly, "Why don't you ask him?" she suggested. So the little boy did. He whispered into the puppy's ear._

"_His name is Snowy," Tintin breathed, snuggling closer to his mother. This was the best Christmas he'd ever had. Maybe the only he'd ever had. He was too young to remember clearly. There was no tree, no lights, no garland, but it didn't matter. Tintin beamed._

_The wrapping paper on Snowy's box had been comprised of blue snippets from magazines, and it was the most beautiful wrapping paper a present could be wrapped in. Tintin wished he hadn't shredded it so completely in his haste to reveal his Christmas gift; he liked the color blue. Maybe one day he'd have a blue bag, a blue hat, a blue ball, and a blue sweater-_

* * *

"Tintin! That's it son, wake up, wake up! It's good to see you're eyes again, laddie!" A bushy black bear wearing a navy jacket growled. Tintin blinked to clear his vision, and realized to his greatest relief that there was no bear in his hospital room, only a rather frazzled sea-captain whom Tintin was extremely glad to see.

"Captain?" He wheezed before bursting into a coughing fit, his esophagus scratchy and raw.

Haddock nodded. "Aye, its me." Tintin hacked again and again, sputtering and heaving for breath and causing the wrought iron bed frame to creak and jerk. Oh, how his lungs burned! The middle-aged man suddenly began sobbing quietly, terrified at the boy's pain, and he hid his face in his hands. Haddock wanted nothing more than to make everything alright again, to have his Tintin whole and sound, and he swore he'd take it all upon himself in a heartbeat…

"C-cap...?" Tintin gasped, attempting to sit up. Flames licked at his body, and he let out and involuntary scream. He stared down at the stark white bandages wrapped around his arms and torso. A stiff sling encased his shoulder. The captain leapt up from his perch on a chair and eased the patient back onto his pillows.

Haddock gazed with concern upon the stricken journalist. "Wha-what is it, m'boy?" he asked, hiccupping into silence, but saltwater still freely running down his face. The captain held a glass of water to Tintin's lips, then placed it back on the hospital nightstand.

Tintin swallowed, his throat not as parched as before. "How bad is it? Where's Snowy?"

"Snowy's fine. He's at the vet, now. The doctors said you were very lucky to get away with only first and second degree burns," Captain Haddock stated. "Oh, Tintin! I-I could smell the smoke! But my bedroom door, it was locked! If I'd a gotten there sooner-"

Tintin objected, "But you did get there, Captain, and that's all that counts. I'm just glad you weren't hurt as well."

"Well, I suppose. But Tin," Haddock cried, "I don't know what I'd do without you! Blistering Barnacles, you're like my son, Tintin, and you've done more for me than anyone ever has. I couldn't bare the thought of such a kind, compassionate lad like you, d-dying, and leaving my miserable self to rot-"

"Captain, please!" Tintin was feeling uncomfortable. No one had ever cared this much about his welfare, not since his mum...

"Package for a Mr. Tintin? Oh- am I interrupting? Sorry," A pretty, blonde nurse apologized, seeing the distraught man and pale boy. "Are you his father?" she asked.

"No," Haddock answered, taking the parcel from the nurse. Glumly he added, "I'm his partner in crime, a sidekick, if you will."

The nurse laughed, a bit too long, attempting to ease the tension.

"Who's the package from? Who delivered it?" Tintin queried, suspicion evident in his garbled voice.

"The tag says, with regards, the Petit Vientiane," Haddock grumbled, and he handed the addressee the parcel.

She administered a sedative to the teen, and left the room. Tintin ripped the brown package open and read the enclosed letter quickly, barely getting through it before the sedative took affect. Tintin's world tilted alarmingly. He couldn't fall asleep now! He had to tell Captain Haddock! The letter-

"Captain? D-don't leave," he mumbled, sliding into unconsciousness once again.

"I don't intend to, lad. Never." Archibald Haddock promised, settling himself into the straight-backed chair at Tintin's bedside. It would surely be a long, sleepless night for him.

In placing the package on the bedside table, the captain accidentally dislodged a photograph from the wrapping. It fluttered to the floor, and he bent to retrieve it. He nearly dropped it again.

It was a black and white photo of Tintin, peacefully curled up in his bed at Marlinspike, his characteristic quiff at an odd angle, and Snowy held close to the boy's chest. There was a thin, dark shadow of a man, draped ominously over the whole scene. Bile rose in the captain's throat; the photographer was surely the man responsible for harming his friend!

White-faced, the captain snatched up the note, still held tightly in Tintin's fist.

_My condolences, Tintin,_

_You were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, but I'm afraid I can't allow you to remain alive while you carry such valuable information. If you weren't such a slave of the law, Interpol's little pet, I could have made an exception; I'll bet you'd rather be in Fiji than endure what's to come. You may have lucked out this time, but don't get comfy. We'll get you sooner or later; we always do._

_See you soon,_

_~Shepherd_

Haddock wished he had some rum. He also wished it wasn't lent.

**Let me just say, I listened to Coldplay's Fix you twenty billion times during this, belted out the lyrics, read some funny tintin drabble things, laughed my head off, and couldn't stop smiling! (and I only had a third of a cup of coffee at 5am, approximatly 18 hours ago...) Now I'm goin' to bed. Peace, peoples!**

**ps. here's some quick trivia-  
**

On Captain Archibald Haddock:

There was a real 20th-century ship's master bearing his surname: Captain Herbert Haddock had been the skipper of the famous White Star Line's passenger vessel _Olympic_. He had also been temporarily at the helm of Olympic's even more famous sister ship, Titanic, while at Belfast.

RIP TITANIC... I was a titanic buff before the hundreth anniversary, just fyi.

(Another thing that made me boil today, that goody two shoes in my History class who thinks she knows everything, but I won't go there.)

Stay calm to be precise.

:)


	4. Atrocious Boredom

**Author's note: I do not own Tintin. (I can't believe anyone would think that I did!)  
Specific thanks to CheeseburgerMonkey13, GoldenFlither, RedScarfLuxio, TintinLover, and Monkeys-ftw for reviewing the past two chapters (YOU GUYS ARE SO GENEROUS!)**

**ps, I fixed chapter two, and actually explained how Tintin got a black eye...silly, scatterbrained me... :p  
(Who noticed that by the way? I told you I WANTED constructive criticism!)  
Haha, just kidding everyone. Read, if it pleases you.  
I apologize in advance for my attempts at humor.  
**

It was Tuesday afternoon when Tintin was released from the infirmary, his skin pink and agitated in places, painfully burned in others, and considerably uncomfortable overall. He was still smothered in bandages and his right shoulder was held immobile against his side in a pure white sling. Captain Haddock had offered to let him stay in one of the numerous other spare rooms while he recovered, but Tintin had politely declined. After all, he was very capable of taking care of himself; he had been on his own from a young age. Tintin had also pestered the captain to the verge of insanity with his numerous complaints of the lack of excitement in his hospital room. (He particuarly found the hideous lilac curtains to be a contributing factor). It didn't help him one bit that the medicinal alchohol the nurses had administered made him loopy.

One such conversation the Haddock and the journalist had while Tintin was under the influence was as follows.

(Monday)

"Captain? Why do you have a beard?" Tintin asked, his eyes betraying confusion and his demeanor serious.

"I-uh-because-," Haddock stuttered, not fully awake and taken off guard.

"IT'S SO CURLY! Can I pet it?"

"What?" Captain Haddock's eyebrows shot up while Tintin pulled on the tangled mass and squealed with delight. Haddock was soon smiling at the tipsy journalist, who was laughing crazily in the linen bed.

"Ow, ow, ow!" Tintin wheezed, gasping for breath. He then lapsed into amused silence.

"You're my best friend, Captain," Tintin whispered, allowing his eyes to close and fatigue overtake him. Captain Haddock was bemused, and pleased.

"And you are mine," he assured him.

* * *

_Bored. That's what he was. He wished he had hundreds of brothers and sisters to play with. But he didn't. At least he had Snowy, and he knew the dog was more than he would ever deserve-_

* * *

_(Present, Tuesday, 4:22 p.m.)_

Tintin's eyes snapped open. He was hovering over the threshold of his loft apartment with the brass knob grasped tightly in his clenched fist. He had to stop zoning out; what if it happened right in the middle of one of his insane adventures? Snowy circled his legs and yipped excitedly, glad to be home. Tintin was somber, however, all of the alchohol and mirth long gone. When he switched on the lights, his spirit fell even more.

Once more his apartment had been trashed thoroughly. Chairs and tables were upended, his leather bound volumes were gutted and scattered about the main living space, and all his records were distributed carelessly all around. Tintin rummaged through a drawer, produced his pistol, and searched each room warily for the perpetrators, but as he suspected, they were long gone.

He double checked the windows and found all but one securely locked. In the process of tidying up, he discovered nothing had been stolen, and he concluded Shepherd, Mr. Baert, Willy, or the young cabin boy must have ransacked his apartment to get under his skin.

When he got around to replacing his records in their cases, it was nearing midnight. His apartment was broken into so often that he could clean it completely in an hour, but with his arm in a sling, his best time was more than quadrupled. The only break he took was to feed Snowy when his pestering almost caused Tintin to trip and dislocate his other shoulder.

In a sour mood, Tintin bolted the door, shut off the lights and fell asleep in his street clothes, without dinner, and the pistol in hand.

* * *

_May squealed and ran away from him, her black hair dancing around her face, and brown eyes shimmering; he laughed, positively glowing with love, and followed after her. Just then May's boyfriend, Jack, stepped across his path. His smile disappeared._

_"We're just friends," Tintin had said, because that was what he had forced himself to believe. "Friends."_

_Jack Portland towered over the small preteen, thick eyebrows forever bent downwards, and deep, frustrated black eyes ever impenetrable..._

_He brought his massive fist up, and Tintin knew what was coming. He glanced to May with what he hoped was a reassuring look._

_"I'm sorry," she mouthed, and then he saw bright yellow stars-_

* * *

Despite his pulsing heartbeat, Tintin opened his eyes slowly and calmly, his fury from the previous night drained away by exhaustion and depression. It was barely six a.m., and the sun was just beginning to rise. He dreamed about May often, and it simply made him feel empty. What made matters worse was Tintin had absolutely no idea where she was. He couldn't write to her, and he couldn't call her; he couldn't even send her a telegram. Oh, how he missed her! The dull ache in his chest was the only proof of how much Tintin longed to talk with her, laugh with her, court her…

Vaguely he could feel the steady rise and fall of Snowy's chest against his, and he curled closer to the fox terrier, abandoning the cold pistol and sobbing into Snowy's cottony fur. He was used to attempts on his life, but the invasion of Marlinspike and his home was too personal, and he felt vulnerable. Hell, he was vulnerable! And if he couldn't control those damned flashbacks, God knows what would happen to him!

Tintin didn't like being sad and dejected, so he wiped the saltwater away and tried to bury it, to smother the feeling of numbness into nonexistence. Tintin couldn't talk about his demons to anyone; he didn't want their pity, it tore him up inside. It was bad enough the captain thought he was a helpless child, but now Tintin was starting to believe it, too. He was...scared.

Snowy wriggled in his arms, sensing his master's dispair, and licked Tintin's nose. The gesture instantly cheered him up and brought a smile to the teen's face. He realized he wasn't alone. He had loyal Snowy, and unfaltering Captain Haddock, no matter how concerned he was about Tintin's welfare, was his bosom friend.

"That's all I need." Tintin decided.

Renewed, Tintin bounded out of bed and into his bathroom where he stripped, removed his sling, and hopped into a scalding hot shower. Steam billowed up around him as he shampooed his ginger hair. Now clean and alert, he dressed in a yellow shirt, black plus fours, white socks and his worn leather shoes. He also grudgingly replaced his sling-of-death. Haddock would be proud.

With confidence, he spiked up his quiff. "It's not like it's ever stayed flat anyway," Tintin mused.

After feeding Snowy, he hurried through a bowl of oatmeal and a glass of milk. Tintin donned his cap and raced out the door, the white dog at his heels. Anyone observing them would have assumed they were racing off to Marlinspike, or the Petit Vientiane, but they weren't.

They headed to the docks.

During the short walk, Tintin went over all the questions he had bouncing around in his brain:

What was in the canister that made it so valuable that the Soviet, the German and Saudi Arabian government would be interested in purchasing it?

When and where would the thin thug, Willy, be meeting with Shepherd to get more product?

Who else was involved? Mr. Baert, Willy, and the cabin boy didn't seem like masterminds to him. Was it the man called Shepherd?

Why did Shepherd seem to take his envolvement so _personally_?

Yes, Tintin had many more questions, but no answers. He pulled the letter he received in the hospital out of his wallet and stared at it, trying to gather any overlooked evidence, but he found none.

Tintin could smell the salty air before he could view the ships through the fog. He would get to the bottom of this case, no matter what it cost. He'd show Shepherd what Belgian journalists were made of, or die trying. Tintin squared his shoulders, inhaled deeply, and approached the harbor.

**I feel kinda evil leaving off right here for some reason...**

**Nah, I'm over it. XP**

**  
!**

**Thanks.**


	5. Leave it to the professionals

**Here is the next installment in my story. I am terrribly sorry about the wait. Life happens. 'nuff said. It's quite short this time. (at least to me) Sorry! Read, review and enjoy!**

**I most definitely do not own Tintin. Seriously, slavery was outlawed, like, 200 years ago; I'm not allowed to own people! XD**

Tintin approached the warehouse stealthily, cursing himself for wearing such a conspicuous yellow shirt on a stake out. He stood out like a beacon of light amidst the seagoing men in gray and blue slickers and heavy rubber boots. Luckily, there were many passengers busying about as well, on that blusterous, sunny day, including fashionable ladies with high-wasted and starched gowns and well-off men wearing double-breasted suits with full cut trousers. Tintin decided to act as if he were just a normal teenager on a stroll instead of a journalist on a reconnaissance mission. Snowy seemed to be following his lead, but as Tintin couldn't read minds and didn't speak dog, there was no way to tell. He supposed a dog was a dog and would hopefully be percieved as such to any malevolent passers by.

There was a pleasant breeze in the air; it coursed through Tintin's orange hair and flowed over his skin. He delighted in it, and the warm sun. _Cherish the little things_, a voice in his head whispered. So he did. He enjoyed living in Brussels with Snowy, and was glad that he had such a good friend as Captain Haddock. He couldn't help but worry quite alot, however, about the rent on his apartment at 26 Labrador Road, where he should get his next story to turn in to the Petit Vientiane, and the growing shadow of the Depression that was casting gloom over the entire modern world.

He dodged rushing fishermen and shouting porters, all carrying something important to their cause to some ship. The old boats creaked where they were moored, and seagulls blared their obnoxious calls. Tintin was happily engulfed in the symphony of seaside sounds.

It was obvious why the captain admired the ocean so much. There was an unlimited amount of sky above you, and fresh, tangy air to hold captive in one's lungs, and an overwhelming sense of freedom that was brought about by the uncontained space. No one owns the ocean; you are king of that realm from the moment you set sail, to the instant you disembark. No can possibly own you.

Snowy's ears perked up, his shiny black eyes narrowed, and he began snuffling at the boards beneath his feet. There was a familiar scent that was predominate over the fishy, saltiness of the sea. _Black-felt-cherry-wood-and-clumsiness_, Snowy decided. He raced off, weaving between startled passengers and annoyed dockworkers.

"Snowy, no! Come back!" Tintin commanded, struggling to keep up through the thick crowd.

"Watch it!"

"Look where you're going, kid!"

"Slow down, boy!"

"Sorry, sorry, excuse me, sir! Sorry!" Tintin apologized, squeezing through a final horde of people. Finally, he located Snowy, barking crazily at two familiar and very indiscreet, cane-yielding detectives.

"Why, if it isn't Thomson and Thompson!" Tintin remarked, greeting the two bumbling Interpol agents.

"Tintin! How do you do?" Thomson inquired.

"How don't you do, to be precise?" Thompson added. They both tipped their hats in his direction.

Tintin laughed. "I'm well. What brings you to the waterfront?" The Thom(p)son twins leaned in secretively. "We're following up on a lead provided by an anonymous source." Thomson confided. "A dangerous group of weapon smugglers are using this port as a crossroads for various, dangerous cargos."

"Precisely," Thompson added. "Seen anything suspicious?"  
"Suspicious?" Tintin grinned. "Possibly." He willingly filled the friendly detectives in on his misadventures and discoveries, leaving out nothing but the instance in which he became friends with a support beam, and the startling letters and vandalism of his apartment; he'd already filed a police report on the latter, and he didn't feel like bringing it up.

"Let's check out that warehouse right now!" Thomson decided, and his two companions agreed readily.

"No, wait! We should take them by surprise-," But the determined Interpol agents didn't hear Tintin over the general hubub, or were, perhaps, ignoring his warning. Tintin thought the former more likely.

Before Tintin could move to stop them, the Thompson and Thomson marched boldly up to the door and burst inside! He rushed quickly after them, Snowy sprinting ahead, but when he stepped inside the metal building he found, to his astonishment, it was completely empty!

"I thought you said it was full of crates and barrels!" Thomson queried gazing around the spacious room.

"It was!" Tintin insisted. "I promise it was! Look here; this dust bears the impression of heavy cargo, and here! Footprints!"

"That's all very good, but it doesn't prove anything. Any sailor could have made those marks." Thompson countered, squinting at the baffled journalist.

"To be precise, any good sailor could prove anything." Thomson stated. "Let's be off, Thompson. This lead has led to a dead end, and I am starved!"

"But-"

"Don't worry Tintin! Anyone could have made a mistake! Leave it to the professionals," Thomson assured him.

The two detectives bid Tintin adieu, then promptly vacated the premises.

"But-what just happened? There were mountains of things here, Snowy! I've made a complete fool of myself!" Tintin spluttered. He searched the entire warehouse, and even ventured out side to double check that he was in the exact location. Sure enough, in peeling, white paint, the words "STORAGE-12" stared solemnly down at him.

"There's no point in staying, Snowy; there is nothing here for me to go on." Tintin spat in disgust. If only he weren't in the hospital for so long! He could've had the police down here sooner and the crooks wouldn't have gotten away with the mysterious canisters. Oh, how Tintin longed to know what was contained withing those metal cylinders.

He left the warehouse, letting the door clang emptily behind him, and headed to his flat.

* * *

"Mr. Baert, would you kindly tell me why the Soviet Union has backed out of their contract with us?" The light haired man in the black suit asked, leaning back wearily in his leather office chair. He impatiently tapped his green fountain pen on the elegant mahogany desk. Swinging his feet, he waited tensely for the shabby, bearded and thin man to speak.

"Shepherd, sir, all of the gas canisters, save for one, sir, were lost in transit. You know how lousy the p-postal service is, especially when they have to use b-boats. Sir, I-"

"That's enough." Shepherd cut him off, his intense blue eyes dangerously bright. "Do you not see the seriousness of this situation? I work very hard to ensure my welfare,and to protect everything we've got going on around here. Whoever finds those gas canisters might accidentally set them off."

There was a slight, ironic pause, as if Shepherd was actually amused at the prospect. Mr. Baert was very nervous. He didn't know his boss well, seeing as he was relatively new to his employment, but from what he'd gathered from his co-workers, he was...eccentric. Also somewhat insane. He was volatile, and Mr. Baert didn't want to get on his bad side.

"Do you understand what would happen?" The man behind the desk stood. "With one little slip, an innocent, normal man could release what could very well be the next bubonic plague."

Mr. Baert nearly gasped as he realized the enormity of what he had been dragged into. There was the high probablility that he was aiding in the transport of a biological nightmare. Weapons smuggling was up his alley, though, and he, like everyone else, needed money badly right now...

Shepherd smirked at his uncomfortable henchman. The power he had over this perfectly boring man was incredible. He drummed his long, pale fingers on a newspaper bearing the black and white image of a certain, bothersome reporter. A very, very, _very_ bothersome reporter who, with luck, wouldn't be bothering anyone for much longer.

"Get out of my sight; I have work to do." Mr. Baert turned to go, but hesitated.

"Yes? What is it?" Shepherd snapped, shifting through loose papers on his desk.

"I, um, what do you want us to do about Tintin, boss? He catches on quickly, and is slippery as an eel."

Shepherd sighed. "Eradicate him within the week or I shall do it myself. He's far too persistent and cunning to be left alive. No doubt, he is frusterated by finding our storage area empty. He'll want answers. Answers he must never get."

Neither of the two plotting men ever noticed the dark headed cabin boy, whom was concealed within a large cabinet, listening with growing horror to every word that was said.

* * *

**Please Review! As always, constructive critisism is appriciated. (how am I supposed to get better at writing if no one says anything?)**

**Blessings,  
Maddi Paige3**


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